


Varaen the Fallen

by Varaen



Series: Oneshot Collection [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Amnesia, Body Horror, Gen, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6684394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varaen/pseuds/Varaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short origin story for my Death Knight, whose name I use on the internet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Varaen the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> I never noticed how tragic his story was until I wrote it down. Tissue warning!

Memories returned only slowly and in fragments. He knows that he is not alone in this, but he still feels strangely adrift, and disconnected from his peers. For innumerable years, he had been nothing but a nameless warrior in the Scourge’s endless armies. Not as mindless as the ghouls and zombies that served under him, but bereft of his personhood nonetheless. It was not unusual to see a death knight break down in the middle of a room or corridor, overwhelmed by their returning memories. It was one thing to know one has committed atrocities, and another thing entirely to remember the act.

He supposed he was one of the lucky ones. The first conscious thing that resurfaced in his mind had been his name. “My name is Varaen,” he had stated loudly and proudly, and laughed for joy.

That had been before the reality of their new existence had set in. Slowly but surely, he could not help but recognize abhorrence of his own existence. He and his fellow death knights were nothing more than twisted spirits chained in the rotting flesh of their own decay, immortal and unliving. Bit by bit, he learned not to flinch visibly whenever he instinctively reached for the light and instead of rejoicing in purity, he only felt the burning void of rejection as it slipped from his grasp.

Step by step, as surely as his memories returned, and with them centuries upon centuries of battle experience and reflexes, he transformed these reflexes. Instead of the light, he learned to grasp for the runic magic his sword was imbued with, as well as the fetid coil of power that lingered somewhere underneath his breast bone.

In time he may yet learn not to shrink away from the reflection of his eroding skin pulled tight over the sharp cheekbones that once made him one of the most eligible vindicators on Draenor. There may even come a day when his sisters would not shudder whenever he went about without his hooded cloak or failed to conceal his corrupted aura.


End file.
